The Bride Collector (10 page)

“I doubt it. Please, Dre, you’re just talking now.”

“It’s true.”

“How long have you been here, Paradise?”

“Seven years. I arrived when I was seventeen.”

There was something different about the girl. The woman. Unlike the others, she held her secrets close.

“And nothing comes to mind when I describe what we know of this killer? Any men you might have gotten to know?”

She thought a second. “No.”

Andrea clearly wasn’t satisfied. “Paradise doesn’t trust men. She was hurt.” She began to cry again and Paradise comforted
her.

Brad wondered what it would be like to be either of these women. What it would be like to live with them. He’d spent the last
dozen years of his life mourning the loss of Ruby, an angel from heaven. She’d been ripped from him and he’d crumbled. He’d
been searching for Ruby’s replacement ever since, but his memory of her spoiled him for anything less.

But his pain surely couldn’t compare to whatever secret pain Paradise was hiding. What circumstances had brought her here,
to this facility for the forgotten? Who loved this lost woman? What hopes steered her journey through life?

Empathy washed over him, joined by a stab of shame. Compared with this one woman, his own life was like a king’s. Yet he spent
his life alone in regret. Sorry for himself.

His emotion was so strong that for a moment he thought the others might be picking up on it, despite his best attempts to
remain detached. He glanced away.

Nikki took up the slack. “Some say it’s possible to sense things about people, pick up on their… energy, even after they’re
dead. Maybe that’s what you mean, Paradise.”

“I don’t know how I see it, I just do. My doctors say they’re visual hallucinations. That I’m psychotic, suffering from schizophrenia.
I see an image and I can’t tell whether it’s a memory or an imagination.”

“That’s right, that’s what they would say. But you disagree?”

“Like I said, I don’t know. I only know what I see.”

“Are you on medication?”

“No.”

“I am,” Andrea said. Her pretty face twisted up again, once more threatening to burst in tears.

“She’s just come off a short manic cycle,” Paradise said without a trace of weariness or disdain. Turning to Andrea, she asked
with a note of real concern, “Do you want to take a shower now?”

“I have to, Paradise. I should go now. Sorry. Sorry, sorry.”

She hurried from the room, finally allowing herself to sob.

“Does this mean we aren’t getting the one thousand two hundred dollars?” Roudy asked. “Bring me the file and lay out all the
evidence. Trust me, it will be the cheapest one thousand two hundred dollars the FBI ever spent.”

“You, my lady,” Enrique said taking Nikki’s hand, “are welcome back at any time. I will wait for you and show you heaven.”

This time, Nikki hooked her hand in Brad’s elbow. “But I have a lover, Enrique. Still, it’s a nice gesture.”

His grin did not falter. Undeterred. Brad wanted to slip the unflappable resident a hidden high-five.

He looked at Paradise and saw that she was staring at him. Eyes bright, brown. Mystery caressed her face as if she were one
of those ghosts she supposedly saw. The ambiguity instantly haunted him.

What was she thinking?

Nikki excused them and they made their way back to the reception area, where they found Allison. She had already prepared
a list of all CWI’s residents dating back seven years, complete with diagnosis, medication, prognosis at time of departure,
and all follow-up.

“So. Did our investigative team offer any help?”

“It was enlightening,” Brad said. “But no. No breakthrough, I’m afraid. Paradise is an interesting one. She claims to see
ghosts?”

Allison lit up. “You met Paradise? Delightful! One touch of your victims and she might tell you how they died.” She looked
away, catching herself. “But then that would be impossible. She could never work up the courage.”

“I doubt the FBI would agree to that.”

“To what? To such foolishness? That’s not the point, FBI. The point is, she suffers from two severe phobias, agoraphobia being
one of them. Her fear of leaving her home here has confined her behind our gates for seven years.”

He was familiar with the debilitating fear. In fact, it was surprisingly common—he recalled a case in Miami involving a woman
who had starved to death in her apartment for fear of going out for any reason, even to buy food. He’d experienced patches
of it himself, immediately following Ruby’s death. The mere thought of dealing with the outside world, even the onslaught
of sunshine, became oppressive. The fear dissipated after a few weeks, but it had left him with a healthy sympathy for those
it afflicted.

“It’s not unheard of among our residents. They’ve been banished by the world, ostracized and made to feel so odd that they’re
only comfortable alone or in a community of their own. Not unlike the devout in any religion. They stick to their churches
for fear of being chastised.”

“What’s her story?”

Allison looked at him with a raised brow. “You should ask her.”

“She’s schizophrenic?”

“Truthfully, I’m still not sure. Before we got temporary custody, the psychiatrist in the state hospital diagnosed her with
schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. Besides the agoraphobia, she also suffers from a deeply rooted distrust of men—those are
her primary challenges.”

“And her delusions? These ghosts she sees?”

“Delusions?” Allison turned and led them to the door. “That’s the question, isn’t it, Mr. Raines?” She tapped her head. “Whether
or not it’s just up in here.”

Flower was too engrossed in her unfinished sculpture of Brad to notice when they drove past her.

QUINTON GAULD HAD
come to accept the fundamental rules of life only recently, in the last year to be exact. And being only forty-one years
of age, he still had time to perfect his enforcement of those rules.

This soothing realization had brought him more happiness and relief than he’d felt for seven years, since he’d been so soundly
rejected by the first woman he’d chosen and loved. He still couldn’t comprehend her failure of reasoning.

Did a bird reject its own fluffy feathers?

Did a car throw away its growling engine?

Did a woman cut off her own beautiful head?

And yet, despite those unshakable truths, she had rejected Quinton. Thrown him off. Cut off her own head when he’d actually
offered to be her head. His only consolation had come from his conclusion that she must be mentally ill. Worse, her soul was
sick, for she’d rejected God’s choice.

Which brought his mind to the first rule. He turned to face the mirrored wall in his bedroom and said it aloud, so the three
wigless mannequins to his right could hear it clearly.

“
Beauty is not defined by man, but by God, who determines the most beautiful.
”

He glanced at the seven ceramic dolls on his dresser, each watching him with rapt interest, dressed in the pink dress, the
blue dress, the green, the black (which was his favorite), the lavender, the yellow, and the white. Seeing their vacant stares,
he expounded on the rule lest they not comprehend its full meaning.

“Not dirty politicians. Not slimy preachers. Not stupid with a capital
S
neighbors. Not Holly-weird. Not me. Not you. Not mother. Not sister. Not brother. Not teacher, student, pimp, or rock star.
God and God alone, who forgives all who have sinned if they follow his rules, defines beauty.”

A pause for effect.

“Even the most beautiful, that one called Lucifer. He forgives him as well.”

Quinton walked into his closet, slipped out of the black bathrobe, and hung it on the hook behind his door. His preparations
for the work ahead of him had proven both refreshing and encouraging. As always, he’d fasted that day and given himself a
colonic. It was important that his body be clean, inside and out.

Though he could taste the steak he would consume in a few days, he would hold off until then, feeding only on the milk and
beans he found so adequate and nutritious for his needs. Afterward, he might go back to John Elway’s place again—on balance,
the experience had been satisfying.

He stepped into a pair of black Armani Exchange underwear, the only kind he owned. The brand cradled him firmly, but didn’t
cut off his circulation like the Tabitha brand, which he’d burned in disgust after a single hour. It was no wonder he hadn’t
been sexually satisfied for so long. Society was conspiring to strip him of his huMANity.

He slipped into white socks, his customary gray slacks, and a light blue button-down shirt. At times like this, it was important
to look respectable without attracting attention. Brown Skechers shoes. Though the clothes made him feel at ease with himself,
he felt at ease with himself wherever he went. It was undoubtedly one of the chief reasons why God favored him. He could adapt
and feel at home anywhere.

Unless, of course, there were bratty kids about. Or when his nails were dirty. Or when it was too hot or too cold, or when
the carpet wasn’t clean, or for that matter when a hundred other imperfections disturbed his satisfaction. In fact, to be
perfectly honest (something he insisted on being at all times), he was only at ease with himself when all rested in the perfect
order God had originally intended.

Which was okay, because Quinton Gauld’s purpose was to put things back in order. Even his own inconsistencies, some of which
betrayed themselves just now, were on the mend with this work. He was a work in progress of perfection.

Bless me, Father, bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

He walked from his bedroom, scanning his apartment with a studied eye. Rules and order brought a symmetry to life that allowed
for balance and joy. This was why he’d given himself a manicure an hour earlier. This was why each red throw pillow on his
peach-velvet-covered sofa wasn’t thrown at all, but carefully placed with attention to balance and beauty.

Not a spot on the walls—he painted each every three months with the non-odorous paint now available at Home Depot. Each wall
featured a large mirror, which allowed him to see himself from all highly trafficked regions.

He bent and picked up a piece of lint, a fluffy white feather that must have squeezed through one of the pillows’ tiniest,
fraying seams. Was it time to replace the pillows? The stuff that was made these days was cheap junk, mostly from China. Or
Washington, DC.

Quinton dropped the piece of lint into a large urn that he’d used as a depository for all such random offerings. The lunatics
in the mental ward had suggested he suffered from an obsessive-compulsive disorder and schizophrenia. They were liars, and
he’d taken their drugs only to outwit them. Truth was, he could outwit them with his mind tied behind his back.

He crossed into the kitchen, seven steps. He wondered how little Joshie from the restaurant was feeling, having learned such
a valuable life lesson from Uncle Quinton. Fortunate little punk. Better now than on the streets, where it might be a sledgehammer
to the head rather than the soft side of a hand doing the teaching.

But the real winner now would be Melissa, the flight attendant who would discover her true purpose in… he glanced at the clock
on the wall… two hours and twenty-one minutes, when the clock struck 2:00
AM
.

His nerves sent a shiver of anticipation through his tailbone, then up his spine. For a moment he felt like he was standing
on the edge of a bridge with a bungee cord strapped to his ankles, ready to launch himself fearlessly into the void. But he
had found a better way to fly.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

The rules. Always the rules. Beauty is defined by God, who determines the most beautiful. True, so true.

But there was more. There was another rule, rule two. Because what Quinton had learned only recently was that God had favorites.
God loved some more than others. He was passionate about his creation and would bend over backward to impress those that he
favored.

Even more than that, there was
a
favorite. A single human who was so favored, in fact, that by comparison the rest didn’t even rate on God’s list of things
worthy of his attention.

The Creator was fixated on one.

Quinton opened the door to a pantry lined with precise rows of canned baked beans made by Hornish, his favorite because of
all the sugary syrup. Brain food.

He withdrew the Hitachi electric drill case, then closed the door. He’d boiled the half-inch bit in water to sanitize it for
Melissa. Not a germ to be found around its twisting edges.

Yes, God was obsessed with one, like he’d once been fixated on Lucifer. All of heaven and hell had peered down from their
lofty, unobstructed view and watched the one courted by God. The rest of creation had existed only as a stage for his courtship.
All other humans were extras.

Heaven and hell wanted to know: Would the chosen one love God in return?

He placed the drill in a black suitcase next to the sedative. The rest of what he would need was already neatly packed. He
clasped it shut and looked around the room. How long before he returned depended on how cooperative Melissa was. A day, maybe
three days.

Satisfied that all was in order, Quinton turned off the lights and headed down to the garage where the green Chevy pickup
waited.

He slid onto the seat and grinned at the inaudible debate raging inside him, between himself and an unseen adversary.

Imagine that, you insane freak. Imagine for a second (and I know this is difficult because your intelligence is less than
mine) but imagine for even a few moments that it’s all about you.

You’re at the center of it all. Your choices are the only ones that count. Like Neo from
The Matrix,
Quinton’s favorite movie, you wake up one day and learn that
you
are the chosen one.

Insane, but so true. You are his bride. God’s favorite.